


the flowered tongue

by midnightscorn (scornandivory)



Series: the house of astarion [2]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: M/M, and nonironically bad porn, anyways happy v-day astarion fuckers have some shitty blowjobs, but uh this is my maiden voyage so to speak on the smut front, if you read this and you know me irl no you didnt and no you dont, is entirely up to you dear reader, so whether there's actually a clear deliniation between ironically bad porn, the concept is that astarion reads bad porn and then actual porn happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29454291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scornandivory/pseuds/midnightscorn
Summary: When Astarion proves difficult regarding the Necromancy of Thay and why he can't have it, Kestrel tosses him a different sort of literature. It backfires. Boy howdy does it backfire.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: the house of astarion [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110398
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	the flowered tongue

**Author's Note:**

> my thought process here is that astarion probably hasn't had, like, a fully satisfying orgasm in like 200 years which means tav gets to have fun and wreck him on a metaphysical level

“And what is this little trinket, darling?” Astarion asked in a tone that heavily implied the answer had better not be what he thought it was.

“It’s a book. You can read it, if you’re so inclined.” Kestrel mimed opening and shutting one as Astarion’s glare dropped from icy to glacial.

Ordinarily, Kestrel would feel even a little bad about provoking his mercurial lover. Ever since finding the Necromancy of Thay, though, Astarion had been what Kestrel’s father would have called “a trial” and his mother would have called “a right pain in the hindquarter looking to get an ear boxed in.” First it had been the hilarious offer to carry the very, very heavy book for Kestrel, as though the elves weren’t both built for precision over power and Astarion was without even the strength Kestrel had built up to be able to draw his bowstring back easily. Then came the pointed hints. Finally one night as the others were settling down to sleep Astarion had nestled in beside him, looked up at him with those pretty eyes, and made an overture that reeked of ulterior motives. Kestrel had looked down at the sharp face staring up at him, all angles and long lashes, and thought “ah, yes, that’s right; I’m largely a convenience for him.” He’d jerked to his feet and made an excuse about catching something for breakfast whilst the non-elves got their requisite sleep and when he’d stumbled back to camp three hours later with two rabbits who’d valiantly given up their lives in service of Kestrel’s excuse, Astarion had been solidly in a trance, calm as anything. It wasn’t that Kestrel wasn’t aware that his feelings were rapidly outpacing anything Astarion would ever feel for him, it was just that he didn’t like reminders of it. So he’d stayed sullen and made the decision to travel without Astarion for a bit, hoping to clear his head. But Astarion had made one final comment about getting a peek at the tome and Kestrel had marched over to the crate of junk he forced his comrades to haul back to camp with them in case it had any resell value whatsoever, pulled out what could generously be called a book, and handed it to Astarion with a line about helping him pass the time.

There were pages missing from the book, making it look like his niece’s gap-toothed smile when looked at sidelong, but Kestrel guessed the plot wasn’t going to be too hard to follow. The spine and back were a lurid pink, the front cover depicting a pair of lovers in a passionate but not quite explicit embrace. The man was a human with waves of brown hair, rippling muscles, and a loincloth; the woman was a fair-haired elf with the largest bosom Kestrel had ever seen on one of his true-blooded kin. Astarion had held the thing like it had been dunked in holy water, the disdain clear as he asked for an explanation. He stalked off to his tent shortly after that and Kestrel had set out, vindicated, to delve into a basement.

The vindication lasted until the basement proved to be full of phase spiders. One of the beasts took out Gale in one hit and Kestrel had just enough time to think “well, this is a shit note to go out on” before Shadowheart was slamming healing energy into the wizard and cloaking them in a shadowy veil as Wyll shot bolts of arcane energy at anything that got too close. The twilight walk back to camp was tinged with shame, anger, and, in Kestrel’s case, just a bit of regret.

Sure, Astarion was, well, Astarion, but everyone had flaws. And just because they were all tense about the teetering line they were walking between “becoming a hideous otherworldly monster” and “becoming puppets to the thing stopping us from becoming hideous otherworldly monsters” was no reason to snap at the person reliably giving Kestrel orgasms. So he’d find a way—without handing over the death book—to apologize. It would, in his mind’s eye, involve equal parts flattery, genuine regret, and hinting at the option for conciliatory sexual favors of a variety of options. He was feeling the slightest bit hopeful as they hit the final stretch into camp. And then they got close enough to see the glare on Lae’zel’s face and all hope banished.

“ _You_ ,” she snarled out, pointing her sword at Kestrel. “This is _your_ doing.”

Behind her, Astarion was seated neatly in front of his tent looking entirely too pleased for anything good to be about to happen. Gale appeared to agree with the assessment, inching off to the side in what was likely an attempt to avoid a second near-death experience in the span of a day. Kestrel inched in the other direction to stand beside Astarion, not entirely sure if he was about to be called upon to defend his steady lay from certain re-death.

“What? You haven’t been enjoying our little literary session? I’m hurt, truly.”

Lae’zel growled but otherwise ignored him. “He has been reading passages of your weak mating rituals incessantly for the last several hours. I am ready to end him myself if it means respite.”

“Personally,” Astarion said in a tone that managed to be both perfectly audible to the group and conspiratorial all at once, “I think she just afraid to admit it intrigues her.”

“Enough!” Lae’zel hissed through clenched teeth. “When I said that your master was impressive for turning poetry into torture, it was not a suggestion to emulate him, spawn.” She turned back to Kestrel, either not noticing or not caring about the new homicidal flare in Astarion’s eyes, and continued. “Next time you give him something to ‘pass the time’, consider gagging him first.” She disappeared into her own tent with a whirl, which the other three took as their cue to do much the same.

Kestrel looked down, ready to say something placating, and stopped short at the sight of the page in Astarion’s lap. “It had _pictures_?”

“Oh, yes,” Astarion said on a laugh, not taking his eyes off the flap of Lae’zel’s tent. “Not nearly enough but every time the two lovers get to frolicking there’s something suggestive and pastoral in the margins. The illustrations are the best writing in the book.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Kestrel protested, willing the distraction to be both functional and non-obvious.

Astarion raised an eyebrow at him. “Have a seat and a listen and then decide.”

Kestrel warily folded himself in the space next to Astarion, peering over his shoulder. The pale elf cleared his throat.

“’She was hot, soft, and wet around him, like the finest velvet left out in a summer storm,’” Astarion read out, low and soft in a honeyed voice that melted into the warm night air. Kestrel was slowly cottoning onto the idea that he might, possibly, have made a mistake somewhere. He had very little care for velvet of any value or dampness, but he knew that tone in Astarion’s voice and he had to fight to repress a shiver. Maybe he’d be lucky and his body wouldn’t react like a dog to a dinner bell at that particular cadence. “’When the paladin thrust his holy sword into her, she cried out in a voice made of wanton pleasure, ‘oh, take me, Tarquinius, and make me feel Mystra as she delved into the Weave’ as she squeezed around him like a vice made of love.’ Oh, _dear_ , I hope poor Gale didn’t hear that bit about Mystra. I’m not terribly sure how accurate of a take on her lengthy mythos that is, but still.”

Kestrel was not going to be lucky.

“I’m not giving you an incredibly powerful tome of necromancy because you read some questionable erotica at me,” Kestrel told him. And also himself. This was quickly becoming an uncomfortable situation for several reasons.

“Really? Pity. Alright, now he’s ‘hammering her innermost button of desire as though guided by Moradin himself’—my, this book likes its blasphemy, doesn’t it?—she’s wailing like a cat in heat as her quivering ladybits are ravaged, he can feel a tightening in both his heart and his loins, et cetera, and so forth. Oh, _here_ _’s_ a nice bit: ‘he let his release flow deep into her feminine flower, though no true blossom could delight him so thoroughly.’” The vampire made it the entirety of the line before giving in to laughter. “What do you think, darling, has our dear author ever felt the intimate touch of another or do they just have a very particular gift with words?”

Kestrel shifted, hoping that Astarion wouldn’t notice. It was a fool’s hope. While the other elf was not necessarily the most intuitive man Kestrel had ever met neither was he an idiot and Kestrel had stupidly spent the last weeks teaching him a very specific set of his tells. A look of delight spread across Astarion’s face.

“Really? If this is what you like, I’m sure I can scrounge up some better reading material, darling. If we track Volo down, I’m sure he’s got something in that pack of his.”

“It’s not,” Kestrel admitted quietly, not sure where to look, “the book.”

Astarion got even more delighted, which was always a dangerous thing for him to be. “Me, then? I’ve been told I have a lovely voice before, of course, but this is…especially flattering.”

Kestrel stood in a graceless motion. “It’s a boon to you, it really is. I’ll just get set up to trance then.”

Astarion rose much more nimbly and slid a loose grip around Kestrel’s wrist. “How about instead, you and I find a nice patch of forest and you can flatter me a bit more.” He smiled a predator’s smile. “As an apology.”

And, well, what was Kestrel going to do? Say no?

The trip to a piece of the woods that was far enough away from the camp to be more or less polite, close enough to call for help, and not covered in stinging bushes was a blur that Kestrel remained aware of only due to an increasing tightness in his pants. The anticipation alone was getting to him in a way it hadn’t since he’d been eighty-six and looking at his first tit. If he lasted long enough for Astarion to actually touch him it would be a victory.

They finally reached a stretch of ground Astarion deemed appropriate and he directed Kestrel to strip off his leathers and lay on his back.

“Get comfortable,” he instructed with a smirk. Kestrel wasn’t sure comfortable was a possibility at the moment, but he obeyed without hesitation.

Astarion settled over him, straddling his thighs and leaning forward to trace over the shirt Kestrel wore under his armor. With delicate, precise motions he untucked the fabric from Kestrel’s breeches and pushed it up, baring him to the breast.

“You’re breathing so heavily, darling,” Astarion told him in that same cursed tone. “Was the walk here really that exhausting? Hush, there’s a love. I’m planning to take pity on you eventually. I just had no idea you liked the sound of me quite this much. You know, we come across an awful lot of books. I can’t say any of it’s as exciting as that little gem back in camp, but, well, wants must. We could pick out a few and I could read them to you while you try desperately to keep from giving away just how much you like it. As though you have any real skill in deception, poor dear. I’d get, what, halfway through the first chapter, perhaps? And everyone with eyes would know just how much you wanted to drag me into an alleyway to be ravished.” Astarion cocked his head, considering. “Or maybe just the ravishing, there were everyone could see you. You do look a bit past the point of caring.”

Kestrel was very much past the point of caring and all he had was the sound of Astarion’s voice and the ghost of his fingers over his stomach.

“I’ve never been much for leisure reading, I don’t think,” Astarion continued idly, looking down at his own bone-pale fingers where they rested against the rise and fall of Kestrel’s chest, “but it’s never too late to start. I could have you all pretty and splayed out on my bed, gripping the headboard and desperate just from my voice. Maybe I’d blindfold you; yes, I like that quite a bit, taking away your distractions one by one until all you had to focus on was me talking to you and how it left you so very, _ravenously_ wanting. Would you like that? Shush, now, no need to say anything. I can feel the answer for myself.” The hand slipped down over the obvious bulge in Kestrel’s breeches and he bucked up with a low whine. Astarion chuckled, the bastard. “So eager. I’m flattered, I really am. You’re so easy for me, aren’t you? Others throw themselves at your capable feet and you don’t even notice but you just hear my voice and come—” there was the slightest pause, punctuated by Astarion stroking him through the barrier of material keeping Kestrel’s straining cock trapped— “running. What _should_ I do with you?”

“I have some ideas,” Kestrel panted.

“Oh, I’m sure you do. You’re such a clever thing that way. Maddeningly stubborn, of course, but decidedly creative. I do so admire your ability to improvise. I could keep you here for hours, I really could, until you couldn’t do anything but beg me. I have fond thoughts of tying you down and watching you struggle as I took what I wanted from you—not to escape, you understand, but for more. I wouldn’t let you go, though, not until I was fully satisfied, and darling? That could take _quite_ some time.”

A vision of the scenario slammed into Kestrel’s head so vividly he couldn’t be sure if it was his own lust conjuring the image or if Astarion was projecting. Either way, the idea of being bound by his wrists writhing in futility as Astarion gave him almost, but ever quite, enough took him from “solidly aroused” to “about to embarrass himself” in the span of a few seconds. It had never been the kind of thing he’d found an interest in before but Astarion… Astarion could make it worth his time.

In a move so uncharacteristically magnanimous Kestrel was momentarily shocked, Astarion released Kestrel from the tight confines of his breeches and stroked him. He didn’t ask for the oil, and he didn’t need it; Kestrel was close enough that things had gotten slick on their own. There was something obscene about seeing Astarion’s bone-white fingers trace lazily up and down his length as though he were simply completing some routine task, like paperwork or murder. Astarion clicked his tongue. “Look at you already so eager to make a mess. You act like no one’s ever done this for you before.”

“Not like this,” Kestrel gasped out. “Astarion, _please_.” 

“Well, if you’re going to ask nicely.” Astarion dropped his voice into that warm, sweet cadence that made Kestrel’s blood fizz. “Go on then. If you’re so ready to be done already, then show me how much you crave what I do to you, lover.”

Kestrel came with a jolt, his back arching off the ground so hard his lungs refused to function, which was the only thing stopping him from waking up the camp. He could feel his toes curling in his boots and he shook and rode out the storm of Astarion’s voice curling into his ear, drawing in trembling breaths as the aftershocks passed through him. He was distantly aware that he’d managed to get his own come on his shirt, which was going to make for an embarrassing load of laundry, but considering his spine was still alive with sparks he couldn’t mind too much.

Astarion pulled back and wiped his hand on Kestrel’s shirt, which was about as much as he’d been expecting. “Well, that was illuminating. You really are full of surprises, you know.” He leered down at Kestrel, all fine-features and smugness.

Kestrel had always been of a mind that one good orgasm deserved another and so with the sort of practical grace he’d perfected over years of practice he grabbed Astarion by the hips and flipped them both over so that the spawn was laid back, propped up on his elbows to look at Kestrel with widened eyes, legs apart and bent at the knees. Kestrel settled down between his thighs, almost parallel to the ground except for where he hovered over Astarion’s hips, thumbing the band of his pants. He could see where Astarion had the beginnings of an erection—at this distance, it would be impossible not to—which was good to know; that little session had done something for both of them, it seemed.

It didn’t take Astarion long to catch up, the vaguely offended look of shock on his face melting into something dark and pleased. “Well, darling, by all means,” he drawled. “I certainly won’t stop you.” In response, Kestrel rapidly undid Astarion’s laces and went to work.

The first time he’d taken Astarion into his mouth he’d done it with the intent to make the night memorable, as though maybe in a few thousand years Astarion would think fondly of getting his cock sucked in a forest once. He had, however, held back a few of his favorite tricks. Showing all your cards at once led to such disappointing future encounters after all. He decided now was as good a time as any to play one such card and without warning swallowed Astarion to the hilt, letting out a low moan. There was a sharp intake of breath from above him and then cold fingers wove into his hair. The thighs on either side of his head tensed inwards and then fell open, letting Kestrel reposition himself slightly. He curled one hand around Astarion’s hip for leverage and let the other trace up his stomach and along his ribs in payback.

This particular trick didn’t rely much on technique outside of the illusion of desperation—the image that you were so hungry for your lover that all else paled in compassion to the need to give them exactly what they wanted, that their pleasure was your pleasure. It was one of those simple-yet-effective bits and bobs he’d picked up over the years and had decided was, along with ridding himself of something as pedestrian as a gag reflex, worth perfecting. Astarion, at very least, seemed to appreciate his endeavors in that area if the twitch against his tongue was anything to go by.

He set a pace that was neither so fast it wore him out nor so slow it gave Astarion a moment to collect himself, using his tongue and the barest hint of his teeth to the best of his not inconsiderable ability. He pulled off enough to circle the head with his tongue and then dove back down until he could barely breath, swallowing around Astarion’s length and making encouraging noises low in his throat, and was rewarded with a distinctly salty taste on his tongue.

“Hells, there, that’s right,” Astarion said somewhere above him in a gratifyingly ragged voice. “If the others could see you now—” he cut himself off with a quiet gasp. Kestrel gave him a moment to finish the sentiment, but it seemed as though his lover had grown distracted.

With a somewhat muffled laugh he pulled off of Astarion, dragging the hand that had been exploring his abdomen down to lazily toy with him. The hand in his hair twitched, pulling his hair almost painfully with the movement, but there was no attempt to stop him as he rested his cheek on his lover’s inner thigh to gaze up at him in amusement.

Astarion hissed in a breath. “Something the matter, sweetie?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Kestrel just blinked innocently up at him—or, well, as innocently as he could when he was running a thumb under the flare of Astarion’s erection, slick with his own spit. “You were saying something.”

Where Kestrel had sound wrecked before he’d gotten his mouth on Astarion, now he sounded absolutely ruined, hoarse and well-used. Astarion’s eyes were black as they narrowed down at him. It was likely a combination of trying to see in the dark and the shadows masking their true color, but Kestrel liked to think if he looked closer he’d see Astarion’s pupils blown so wide and hungry from what was being done to him that virtually none of the amber-red of his irises could be seen. “I was just thinking it’s such a shame the others aren’t around to see you like this,” he said, voice low and intimate. “If anyone stumbled across you like this, they’d think I was about to hand you a truly exorbitant amount of gold.”

Kestrel huffed out a laugh. “So you’re saying I should demand compensation to finish up here?”

“Absolutely not,” Astarion snarled. This time the tangle of his fingers in Kestrel’s hair pulled him back an inch, not subtle in where Kestrel’s attentions would be best appreciated. Kestrel laughed again and pressed two open-mouthed kisses to his partner’s skin—one in the crease of his hip and the other against the side of his rigid cockstand—and swallowed him down once more.

“Ye-es, just like that. Gods, you really were made for this, weren’t you?” Astarion sounded pleased and just a bit winded, his breath hitching as Kestrel returned his now-redundant hand to where it had been stroking across the muscles of his torso.

It was always nice to be appreciated, Kestrel supposed, but if Astarion was still capable of speech then he wasn’t doing his job well enough. He let go of Astarion’s hip and pulled the neglected vial of oil out of his pocket to coat two fingers before reaching up and around to press into the cleft of Astarion’s ass. The spawn jumped a bit then spread his legs a fraction wider and rolled his hips back with a low, encouraging moan. Kestrel swallowed Astarion down again until his nose pressed into pale skin and gently eased a finger inside, giving Astarion a moment to adjust and then crooking it in a beckoning motion. As ever, his aim was true and Astarion arched up with a low moan followed by the sound of skin hitting skin. Looking up, Kestrel could see where Astarion had clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes two liquid pools of night opened wide above it. He hummed in appreciation, sending a shiver through the vampire as he redoubled his task. They both had to roll slightly onto their sides for the positioning to work, but Kestrel had gotten worse body-aches from lesser ventures and from the way Astarion thrust into his mouth and clenched around his finger he assumed his friend had no complaints to register either. It was over fairly quickly after that point, which suited Kestrel; he’d been fighting an increasingly uphill battle against post-coital weariness since before his face had gotten anywhere near Astarion’s lap and he still had to walk back to camp before he could collapse into a trance. With a clever twist of his finger and just a hint of teeth he felt the fingers in his dark curls spasm and then pull him in close, too close to breath. He went obligingly as the taste of salt spilled across his tongue and down his throat, the muscles of Astarion’s stomach jumping beneath his hand. He held his paramour in his mouth for a moment more then swallowed and pulled off, tucking Astarion considerately back into his breeches and dragging his own tired body up so that they were both laying on their sides facing each other. His idle fantasy of earlier had been right; Astarion’s pupils nearly swallowed his irises, dark and distant. Kestrel watched them as they shrunk back to a more usual size, Astarion collecting himself with every breath.

“You know, darling,” his white-haired fox said after a moment, sounding almost like his usual self, “if you ever get tired of shooting at rabbits and stringing bows there’s an absolute fortune for you to be made on your knees.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when the glamor of rabbit-shooting and bow-stringing finally wears away,” Kestrel told him seriously before angling his face forward and reaching up to cup Astarion’s cheek. He’d had partners aplenty who wanted at least one thing in Kestrel’s mouth—preferably a thing with cleansing properties—between their bits and their tongues which was more than fine, but Kestrel preferred it like this. It felt naughtier, somehow, filthy and exhilarating. Astarion, who only disappointed on matters of morality, leaned in to meet him in the middle.

Kestrel found himself smiling into the heat of Astarion’s thin lips, which objectively made the kiss more awkward, but then, they were both reaching exhaustion anyways. He licked into Astarion’s mouth, feeling the points of his canines on the tip of his tongue, and kissed him, lazy and indulgent and just a bit messy. It was nice to have a moment to just drowsily make time with a pretty man if one discounted the circumstances that had brought them there. Soon enough, though, he had to pull back for air, running one thumb over the slick, plush line of Astarion’s mouth, reddened from what they’d just been doing.

“You know, maybe one of these days,” Kestrel said conversationally, voice hoarse, “we’ll have an actual bed.”

Astarion laughed and pulled away to sit up, stretching his arms up and arching his back. Kestrel’s nether regions gave a valiant twitch at the sight and he forced himself to calm down. “Now, now, no need to act spoiled. There’s a whole forest here to debauch ourselves in and all you can think about is comfort.” He stood up and went to work putting himself to rights, tucking in his shirt and lacing his breeches. With the moonlight on his quicksilver hair he looked like a sylph. He looked down at Kestrel with a raised eyebrow. Kestrel waved him onwards. While there was little to no chance that the others wouldn’t have cottoned on to what was happening, especially since it had _been_ happening with increasing regularity, it felt rude to not at least try to be discreet, which meant arriving separately.

Also, Kestrel needed a moment.

Astarion shrugged one elegant shoulder and began back towards the camp without so much as a backwards look. He looked much more put together than Kestrel suspected he himself did—he had a tendency to look like a man who’d just gotten dragged through the forest by his hair and liked it when Astarion was done with him—but his shirt was still just a bit crooked, his curls just a tad more untamed than usual. He didn’t mind the others knowing what they did together and never had. He was sly and unashamed about it in moments like this and quiet in the act itself as though afraid the others might overhear what they undoubtedly knew was happening. Kestrel chalked it up to a matter of vulnerability; seducing the leader—for a definition of leader that meant “ranger who neither wanted the honor nor really knew what to do with it”—of their little apocalyptic circle fit his image, gasping on the ground as Kestrel took him apart did not. An aloof lothario didn’t require any cracks in the armor which actual emotion could seep through. It made something warm quiver in the base of Kestrel stomach that he was trusted with the glimpses he was, even though he knew it was only because he repaid that little bit of honesty with, if he said so himself, some fairly mind-blowing orgasms. It put him in the mind of a halfling he’d worked with in Baldur’s Gate. She’d been working at training a massive python to be her animal companion and had skipped into work one day, eager to tell Kestrel that her cold-blooded friend had stretched out beside her the night before in what she was sure was a sign that her coaxing and tenderness were being repaid. He still remembered the exact look on her face when he’d had to explain that the snake had been trying to measure her to see if it could swallow her whole. Now, nearly three decades later, here he was lying down with a serpent of his own. But, well, he could be a mind flayer tomorrow. If now wasn’t the time to made stupid decisions, when was?

Waiting for his thoughts and his breathing to settle, Kestrel stood and fixed his clothing as much as he could, wincing when he saw his own release still clinging to his shirt. Ah, well, nothing to be done about that out in the wood. With the bitter aftertaste of Astarion still on his tongue, he made his way towards the distant firelight.

**Author's Note:**

> again, first ever nsfw writing, i do not know what i'm doing and i cop to that


End file.
